Reunion
by Winam
Summary: On the third anniversary of her exile, Ruth receives a surprise visit.
1. Chapter 1

**Reunion**

By Winam

_**= 1 =**_

"What are you up to this weekend, Rita?"

"Weekend?" Ruth cries, "Oh God, is it Friday already?"

"Yes, Friday afternoon." answers a much amused Hayley. "So, what _are _you doing this weekend?"

"Nothing much." Ruth manages to mumble.

Hayley sighs. "Again? Rita, you're absolutely hopeless."

"I just want to relax," she argues. "Particularly since I've had a bugger of a week."

Her friend smiles at her indulgently. "If that's really the case then you've got a right to relax. But if it's just another lame excuse of yours, then I'm not having any of it. Why don't you get out this weekend – have some _fun_ for once?"

Ruth frowns. "Are you implying that I never have fun?"

"No." Hayley assures her, "But you've given me the same answer four Fridays in a row now. And gathering from what you tell me every Monday, it's either you've had such an X-Rated time that I'd better not know, or you really have done nothing much. Somehow I'm guessing it's the latter." And touching her arm, she gently says, "You're allowed to go out, you know."

Her friend's concern comes as a bit of a shock, because she is right. Ruth hasn't been having fun of late. Despite her stoic façade, despite living in Sydney, the fun capital of Australia, she's not been happy in a long time, and this week it has all come to a head.

Tomorrow is the third anniversary of her leaving home – and Harry. She took note of the day weeks ago, and as the day drew closer found herself thinking more and more of him: of their final moments together by the River Thames, of feelings both expressed and unspoken. Indeed, there is no escaping her memories, even three years on. No matter how much she berates herself for being a fool, her head still turns every time she spots a man that looks like him, and with every encounter she feels afresh the sting of that loss.

She thinks of him now as she takes the train home to Petersham Station, and as she walks down the traffic-clogged road to the quiet lane where her flat is. She thinks of him as she eyes her empty fridge and absentmindedly rustles up a paltry dinner of charred cheese on toast, the smoky scent amalgamating with her loneliness, her yearning.

After dinner she switches on the TV but takes little notice of what is on-screen. Instead, she is consumed by her own mind games.

_Does he think of me?_ she asks herself.

_Surely__ not, _her mind ruthlessly replies._ Separation would have dulled his feelings years ago. You know he is not one to brood. You've seen how he immediately and brutally deals with his emotions so that his reason remains clear. He would have locked away your memory so he could do his job. He would have long moved on._

The argument eats away at her since she could not contradict it. She has little idea of how he is. Malcolm, bless him, has kept in quiet contact, slipping her encrypted emails containing precious snippets of news every now and then. It was how she found out about Zaf's and Adam's passing, both of which had devastated her. But he has always been silent where Harry was concerned.

The lack of news drove her on occasion to visit a random Internet Café to hack into the MI5 firewall. Each time she would look up the Section D directory to reassure herself that Harry was still there. Last time she found that Ros's name had replaced Adam's, leaving her to wonder if Harry had finally found someone to take her place.

These thoughts chase her into sleep so that she awakes the next morning thoroughly depressed. It is only when she remembers Hayley's advice that she finds fresh resolution.

_Yes, __I shall go out today. I shall try and do something fun, goddammit._

She packs a small backpack, picks up her jacket, and leaves the flat. A brisk walk takes her down to Café Belem, a favourite hangout in this suburb of ex-pat Portuguese. On sunny mornings all tables inside and out would be occupied, the place filled with the soft sounds of Portuguese that brought back fond memories of childhood holidays in the Algarve. However given the early hour and the threat of rain, she has the place all to herself.

She orders a short black, and on second thoughts, a pastel de nata as well. Retiring to a table by the window, she watches the wind dip and swirl outside.

_Such a familiar scene,_ she ponders. _Not unlike a London autumn's day_.

The realisation immediately evokes more memories of her former life. It was on such days that she and Harry met at their favourite bench on the Embankment. They discussed many things on that cold bench, and covered subjects that more often than not were grave. Yet she never felt unhappy, nor did the cold seem to penetrate when he was near.

In London she lived a life of unpredictability, of danger, yet a life lived to the full. Harry was an integral part of it, her cornerstone; in truth, everyone's cornerstone. If Harry went down then so did Section D, MI5, the country's security. This was in part what made her so reticent to express her love, what made her so unsure about his feelings for her. She could not believe that such a man could love her, that _she _was _his _cornerstone – until he showed the world how much she meant to him by his willingness to sacrifice himself for her sake. It was to be his biggest act of love, only she had thwarted it, by choosing his life over hers.

Tears well in her eyes. For too long has she tortured herself with such remembrances. She must face reality, and soon. Her heart must realise that there would be no second chances for them; it must learn to forget, to heal, to move on, no matter how traitorous that seems. She does not want to live like a pitiful widow anymore, since even widows move on.

A sudden draft alerts her to a new arrival in the café. Unconsciously, she turns towards the door – to see a pair of familiar brown eyes upon her. She blinks hard. Is he real?

"H-H-Harry?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for all the comments, folks. They're much appreciated. Now, let's see what Harry's been up to...**

* * *

=_** 2 =**_

Harry watches Ruth leave her flat and follows her to the café. When she enters he stops just out of sight. He pulls his thin jacket tightly close, crossing his arms to keep out the wind, and to keep his nervousness in check. He hasn't felt so nervous since their date all those years ago. Things have changed immeasurably since that happy evening, yet nothing has changed at all. So many things still unspoken, unstarted. Will it always be this way? He doesn't know, and after four months of searching hasn't the energy to contemplate an answer.

The former Ruth Evershed had been astonishingly difficult to find. Even Malcolm, who admitted to being in contact with her, did not know where she physically was. All Harry had to go on were the details of her first contact in France. From there, he followed the slimmest of trails through Europe and across North Africa. He had been proud of Ruth's ingenuity at first, but by the time he reached Egypt her elusiveness had worn him out. The only thing sustaining him was hope; she was alive and well, somewhere, and sooner or later he would find her.

His break came from a tip-off from his Australian counterpart who discovered a Rita Ealing matching Harry's description living in Sydney; and working, rather ironically, as an Arabic interpreter for a government department. Harry wasted no time in taking the first plane out of Cairo, and two days later stood outside Rita's workplace.

Rita hadn't an inkling of the joy she caused when she arrived at work that day. Harry was so ecstatic that he had found _his Ruth_ that he almost ran up to scoop her into his arms. That was until his self-control kicked in. Instead, he did what he knew best – he watched her.

He watched her patiently translate the grievances of mothers and grandmothers. He watched her smile and laugh with her colleagues at tea breaks and lunch. When she was alone, he watched her unconsciously tuck an errand strand of hair behind her ear; a familiar action that made his heart lurch. He followed her home in the evening, standing outside her flat in the cold twilight while she went about her evening routine, remaining until she switched off her bedroom light.

Back in his hotel room, when he pondered on what he saw, he realised that Ruth _had_ changed; had relaxed into a person who looked settled and happy. Culture and climate perhaps played a part in her transformation, but he suspected that the good, decent people around her had the greatest influence. It was clear that she liked her workplace, and that on the surface she seemed to enjoy her work, too. Knowing how important work was to Ruth, he was glad that this job at least made use of some of her linguistic talents. More importantly, it provided a safer environment in which to put it into practice – leading him to agonise over whether to approach her at all.

_All I'd ever __do is put her in danger again,_ he realised,_ not to mention open up old wounds_. _Yet she has a right to know that her old life is there for the taking._

But shall she take it? His only hope came from the knowledge that she still lived alone. Why was she alone? Could it be that she still felt something for him? It was this possibility that led him to her door early this morning.

Outside the café, Harry trembles; frozen by cold, and rather uncharacteristically, by indecision. It takes him some minutes to find the courage to leave his hiding place and enter. When he does, he finds Ruth staring pensively out the window. She does not notice him at first, allowing him to study her.

She is dressed more casually and conventionally than in her previous life. Gone is the long, printed skirt, replaced by dark jeans. In place of the white overcoat is a hooded jacket, and her neck is bare of that fascinating charm necklace. Yet outward changes have not altered the effect she has upon him. His pulse still quickens. His body still tingles as adrenalin kicks in and weariness is forgotten. Sheer need still draws him to her, and draws out of him feelings so strong that they still stun him.

At length, she turns her large, blue eyes to him; rooting him to the spot.

_Beautiful_, he sighs.

She on the other hand is evidently startled – and wary – leaving him stranded in no man's land. With bated breath, he waits, prays that she will acknowledge this ghost from her past.

And she does.

His name might come hesitantly to her lips, but it is this hesitation, so characteristic of her, that has him smiling from ear to ear.

"Ruth." he whispers.

A trace of a smile appears on her lips, her eyes soften; he is hypnotised.

"What would you like, sir?"

The question snaps Harry from his trance. He apologises to the barista, hastily ordering a black coffee before turning back to her.

"May I?" he asks, pointing to the empty seat beside her. She nods. He takes his seat, before lapsing into electrified silence.

"You look well." he finally says. And she does. Her hair is longer and softly frames her face. An extra pound or two has made her curvier, sexier in his eyes.

Ruth, on the other hand, sees a man more worn than the one she left behind: a little thinner, a little more lined, a little more scarred.

"You… you're tired." she murmurs, her heart breaking as she sees the cost he bears from years of hard toil.

"A little less now perhaps." he assures her, pausing while their orders are placed on the table. On the verge of raising the cup to his lips, he halts when a tart is pushed towards him.

"My treat." Ruth says quickly when he tries to object. "I still owe you dinner after all."

"You don't owe me anything, Ruth," he tells her, "But thank you all the same."

He shows his appreciation by devouring the tart in two large bites.

Ruth grins. "Hungry are we?"

"Quite. I missed breakfast unfortunately."

"Then let me get you another."

Before he has time to decline she orders two more tarts. Soon the pair happily munch on the crisp pastries, savouring their sweet, custardy interiors and the warmth of each other's company. They sneak glances in between bites and sips, until both plates and cups are empty.

"So," Ruth tentatively begins, "How long do I have you for?"

Harry lifts an eyebrow.

"I, I mean," Ruth stammers, "Is this just a flying visit of an hour, a day, or…?"

She stops, stilled by his large hand upon hers. His touch triggers a wealth of emotions which she purses her lips to control. She succeeds, though only just.

"I'm not sure as yet." he replies tentatively, looking every bit as nervous as she. The realisation compels her to reassure him by entwining her fingers in his.

"Will you at least spend the day with me?" she gently asks.

Her smile gives him the confidence to reply, "Yes."

"Good." she beams. "Let's not waste it then."


	3. Chapter 3

**Right, let's up the fluff factor just a little bit...**

* * *

= _**3 =**_

"What would you like to do?"

Ruth's question surprises Harry. "I haven't given it a thought to be honest."

"Is this your first time in Sydney?"

He nods. "It hasn't crossed my mind to venture out here before – except perhaps during the Rugby World Cup in 2003. I would have rather enjoyed watching Wilkinson score that last second goal. As a matter of fact, I rather think _you _would have enjoyed it, too."

"Me?" she cries, "Harry, you know very well my love of _any _sport."

"Yet I recall a time when _you_ wished to be Mrs. Jonny Wilkinson."

"Did I really?" And after a moment, murmurs, "Oh, so I did."

Unable to hide her blush, she continues, "I was just caught up in the moment like everyone else at the time. And anyway, my infatuation didn't exactly last. Except that I find a pair of tight shorts still rather fetching on the right man."

Harry splutters. The last time he put on a pair of shorts was when he was still at Oxford.

"Anyway, I was going up to the Blue Mountains on the train today."

The proposal surprises him – Ruth hardly did anything outdoorsy while in Section D – but he is not adverse to the idea.

"You can still do that," he tells her, "As long as you don't mind me tagging along."

"Of course not – as long as you don't mind a walk with plenty of stairs."

"Nothing I can't handle, I'm sure."

She eyes him sceptically. "Let's hope that's true." she mutters, "Since I'm not hauling you back up the cliff at the end of the day."

At her insistence, she pays the bill and then leads him down to the station where they take the next train west. Harry can't remember the last time he rode a train for pleasure; perhaps during a rare summer holiday when his children were still young; before everything went pear-shaped. Settling on the stiff, leather seat, he carefully minds the inch or two of space between them. He knows not to get too close too quickly, despite her touch in the café, and as a consequence ends up sitting ridiculously upright.

Ruth discerns the tension in him, and wonders why he has sought her out. Why now, and not a year or two ago? A knot of worry grows in her stomach as she considers the possibilities. Has he come to bring bad news? If so, what could it be? Has he quit the Service? Has something calamitous happened to Jo or Malcolm? Or has he achieved the impossible: brought her back to life? She glances at his rigid form, and sighs.

_This isn't going to be easy._

"So," she begins, "How long have you been looking for me?"

There is a slight edge to her voice, a determination in her eyes that automatically makes him circumspect.

"I left London four months ago," he tells her, "But I found you just yesterday."

"Did you follow me to work, and back home again?" she questions, and then immediately adds, "Of course you did – not that I realised. I must seriously be losing my tradecraft."

"You didn't notice because you weren't actively looking. That's actually a good thing since it tells me that you feel safe here. Besides, there's nothing wrong with your tradecraft, as four months of searching testifies."

"Well, I took every care to cover my tracks."

"And you did admirably."

"I had no choice with someone on my tail for the first two months. I did everything I could think of to lose them through Europe, to no effect. In the end I only shook them off by crossing into Morocco. After that it made sense to continue travelling – see all the places I spent half of my life studying. But I couldn't linger, even if I wanted to, and in time I had to stop."

"Why then did you choose Australia?"

"I met a lot of people on the road with family here. Turns out that Sydney has quite a large Arabic-speaking community – presenting plenty of possibilities for work. I was so tired of running by then. I wanted to stop in a place that was safe, calming, and Australia seemed like all of those things. I did everything I could to get here, and I'm glad I did."

"I gather then that you enjoy your work?"

"I do. My role at the Bankstown Council is a roaming one, helping out whichever department needs my services. It gives me plenty of variety. At the moment I'm at the mayor's office on Monday mornings and end up in Community Services on Friday afternoons."

"Sounds like you've been kept on your toes and out of mischief." he wryly says.

Ruth smiles. "I enjoy it. It might be just a local council, but I like getting to know the community like this. I like doing something worthwhile."

Harry looks at her radiant face, and feels his heart sink. How could he tear her away?

"I'm glad." he eventually says, "I'd hate to see you unhappy in your job."

"It's as good as it gets for me. Intellectually, it might not as stimulating as MI5, but I didn't expect it to be either. I don't think I could be lucky a second time."

Ruth turns away; gazes at the passing suburbs as she remembers the Grid, the bunker-like office where they once both worked. She remembers the intensity and the camaraderie; the quiet times they shared in the early and late hours of the day; the comfort of having him near.

Harry sees her wistful look, and wonders if this is the right moment.

"What…" he pauses, tries again. "What if you can get your old job back?"

Her response is immediate. "What do you mean?" she pointedly asks.

"What if I said I've cleared your name?"

"Stop playing, Harry." she retorts, "Is this why you've come looking for me?"

"Yes."

Her heart stops. This is what she has been waiting for, right? To return to the life she loves; to the man she loves. But is he still Head of Section D? He has after all taken four months off to find her, meaning that he's either on long service leave or has left the Service altogether. Would she return if the latter is true?

He seems to have read her mind. "I understand if you don't want to take up the offer." he soberly says.

"Can you?"

"Yes, since you're clearly settled here."

Then again, maybe he hasn't.

"Am I? You have no idea how I am, Harry."

"Then tell me."

She closes her eyes as a flood of feeling – all the emotion of the preceding weeks, months, and years – submerges her.

"Lonely." she finally says. "I'm lonely. No matter how wonderful work is, it isn't enough. It doesn't replace the emptiness in here." She pounds her chest. "Nothing does."

"Nothing?"

She drops her gaze. "Only… Only one thing."

She immediately regrets her display of neediness. Would he pity her for it, or does he feel the same? She slowly lifts her eyes. What shall she see?

"Oh Ruth." he exhales, closing the space between them to draw her into his arms.

Deep in his embrace, she no longer needs to see anything – only feel.


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks for all your comments. They've been fab, keep 'em coming! Now, let's up the fluff - and the angst.**

* * *

= _**4 =**_

Harry feels Ruth snuggle against his side. It's a sensation so delectable that an audible sigh escapes from him. She is so soft, so warm, so calm in his arms; so altered from the passionate woman of five minutes ago. The pain that blazed in her eyes has now been tempered, yet he cannot shake it from his thoughts.

He recognises its origins. It is a pain borne out of frustration at the emptiness within; at the restlessness that does not abate; and most crucially, from the hunger to connect with the one person that gave life meaning. Yes, he knows how she feels.

It is a testament to her strength that she has not given in. Instead, she has not only endured exile, but established a good sort of life on the other side of the world. Then again, he knows that her strength comes from having to endure many tragedies: the loss of her father at a young age, the unhappiness of her mother's second marriage, the death of her step-brother as well as her colleagues. He knows now that she survives by immersing herself in her studies, her work, to the point of excess. It was how she carried on after being held hostage, after Danny died, when their relationship frayed.

Yet there is something about Ruth that brings out all his protective instincts. She has endured so much that he would do anything to shelter her from further tragedy. Although he has been the prime cause of it in the past, it is the last thing he wants for her in the future. Yet how can he ensure that all will be well when tragedy follows him wherever he goes?

The feel of soft lips against his neck compels him to turn to her – and what he sees moves him. Her eyes and cheeks glow with love; her lips upturned in a delicate smile meant only for him. Without a thought he slants his mouth over hers, trying to imbue all that he feels into one kiss.

"I love you, Ruth." he murmurs against her parted lips.

His words touch her deeply, their simplicity and sincerity evident in the warmth of his voice, the ardour in his brown eyes. She could scarcely remember when her heart was so alive and full; perhaps on their one and only date, when the future was so full of potential.

She lifts a hand to his cheek, stroking the rough, worn surface delicately with her thumb. She traces the high cheekbones, the lines around his mouth, deepened by time, and the furrows in his brow: all familiar, all precious. Yet she notices new scars, both physical and mental in kind. The mark on his temple spoke of violence inflicted, but more visibly, the radiance that usually surrounded him has dimmed. She wonders what he has endured in his efforts to find her – what he has endured since they parted.

With great gentleness she leans in for a heartfelt kiss, whispering, "Love you too, Harry."

To her alarm, his face crumples as he fights back the tears. Lifting her other hand to his cheek, she rests her forehead against his.

"It's alright, you've found me."

Tightening his hold on her, he struggles to speak. "It's not that," he tells her, "But that you still care for me, after all I've done to you."

"You've done nothing wrong. I made my choice, and I'm glad I did."

"Yes," he quietly admits, "You _have_ made the right choice from what I've seen. You looked so happy yesterday at work – so happy in fact that I thought you've forgotten about your old life."

"Oh Harry." she sighs, "I get on well enough as Rita Ealing, but it doesn't mean that I've forgotten who Ruth Evershed was; and what Harry Pearce meant to her. It doesn't mean that I don't think, wonder or worry about you. You are, and will always be, loved by me. Always."

In time the train makes its way from the flat Sydney basin, up to the Blue Mountains. As they zigzag higher up the escarpment, the bush – a dense canopy of eucalyptus trees and scrub – duly closes in. The train travels through sandstone gorges, tunnels and small villages. Every now and then they glimpse expansive valleys and domed peaks – a tantalising taste of what is to come.

They chat light-heartedly about their lives for another hour – how his dog has befriended her cats, how she has begun Vietnamese and Mandarin lessons in an effort to extend her linguistic repertoire – until Ruth says, "Next stop is us."

Gathering their things, they make their way to the doors just as the train pulls into Wentworth Falls station. An icy gust of wind whips through them as they exit, causing Harry to quickly zip up his jacket and mutter, "Not the warmest place in the world, is it?"

"Well, we are almost a kilometre above sea-level." Ruth replies, wrapping a scarf tightly around her neck. "You cold?"

"Nothing I can't handle."

"You can buy something warm if you like on our way through the shops."

In answer, Harry merely thrusts his hands petulantly into his pockets.

They make a quick stop for lunch provisions before finally setting off down the highway, then through a park to the start of the track.

"Charles Darwin Walk." Harry reads, "Was he really here?"

"Oh yes." replies Ruth, "Darwin visited Australia on his way back to England from the Galapagos Islands. He took this walk one afternoon after lunch apparently."

"That's some claim to fame."

"It is considering he composed _Origin of the Species _because of that voyage. He wrote that he was impressed with Wentworth Falls. A bit later on you'll see why."

They enter the walk, initially a path through the scrub. A creek lined with ferns flows alongside, bubbling now and then over small cascades as it makes its way downstream. Bar the occasional passing couple or family, the track on the whole is a quiet one.

Occasionally, Ruth would stop to examine something that caught her eye: yellow pom-pom wattle blooms; a tall, orange Banksia; or the graffiti-like insect trails in the trunk of a scribbly gum. Harry meanwhile examines _her_: how her expressive eyes change in the varying light, how the corners of her mouth crease upwards as she smiles, how her perfume mingles with the distinct fragrance of eucalyptus to create a scent that is at once fresh and intoxicating.

Eventually the path turns from dirt to boardwalks that criss-cross the creek. After a short stint of stairs, they come to a large rock overhang, bordered by a small, golden beach. They cross the creek via some dubious stepping stones, laughing as they wet their shoes. Underneath the overhang, they sit on top of cool stone to watch and listen to the flowing water.

"How peaceful it is here." he quietly says, glancing upward at the curtain of moss and fern hanging from the ceiling. "It's so different from anything back home."

"That's what struck me when I first came out here. There's almost nothing I recognise in either landscape or vegetation."

"It's… alien."

"Only because everything's so ancient; the plant species are already over ninety million years old."

"When Britain was hardly an isl-"

A riotous laugh from the trees interrupts him.

Harry smiles. "I guess that would be the kookaburra." he says, "Catherine liked to sing a song about a kookaburra when she was at school; almost as much as she liked quarrelling with me."

Ruth too smiles. "Takes after her father then – although I've not heard you sing as yet."

"You're not missing out on much." he replies, a tinge of sadness in his voice as he thinks of his daughter.

"How is she?"

"Catherine's well. She's settled in the Pyrénées with her boyfriend Fabian – when she isn't volunteering in Sierra Leone."

"She hasn't changed then."

"No, Catherine's not one for the mundane. But at least she's out of the Middle East. I'm sure I told you that she was working for the Red Crescent in Southern Lebanon."

"How could I forget? You were so worried about her."

"I had a right to be. Straight after you left she got caught in a bomb blast."

Her eyes widen with shock. She knows how much Catherine means to him, particularly since she is the only family member he is on good terms with.

"Harry, I'm sorry."

"I flew to Beirut the day after I said goodbye to you. I thought…" He takes a deep breath. "I didn't know what to think. I just knew I couldn't lose _two_ people I loved in one week."

Silence.

"And did you find her?"

"Yes, in a hospital in Beirut. Fabian was there by her side, so at least she wasn't alone. I managed to bring her back to London. Even Jane had a smile for me when she met us at the airport."

Threading her arm through his, she lays her head on his shoulder, trying to absorb his pain. He wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her close.

"I missed you." he whispers.

"I know." she replies, clutching him closer. "If I knew what was in store for us I wouldn't have turned you away. I would have done everything possible to make those last few weeks happy ones."

Harry exhales despondently. "Hindsight is something we both wish for." he tells her, "But we can't undo the past, Ruth. Let's just be thankful that we have the present to work on."

Hand-in-hand they stroll down the track, now oblivious to their surroundings. They walk in this way until the track narrows. Then relinquishing their hold, they negotiate the steel steps down the side of a small waterfall. The walk is wilder now, the track skirting around a sandstone cliff face and then down the first of many steps to the top of a bigger waterfall. There, the tree line opens to reveal an expansive valley.

"Ah…" Harry sighs, "I see now why Darwin liked this place."

Fifteen hundred foot cliffs, carved by millions of years of erosion, extend for miles around. Topped by bottle-green eucalypts, they gradually slope down to a valley floor rich in rainforest. Apart from the odd roof top on a nearby plateau, the scene is one of uninterrupted wildness.

Ruth draws in a deep breath as she looks about her.

"Beautiful, isn't it? A friend at work brought me out here last year." she tells him, "I fell in love with the cliffs, the bush, the walks – the way the horizon seems infinite. I like how on sunny days the evaporating oil from the gum trees makes the distant hills appear blue."

"Hence the name of this area, I suppose."

She nods. "Unfortunately the oil makes everything very flammable, especially on hot, dry summer days."

"I can't imagine all this being razed to the ground."

"This valley's escaped the fires in recent years, but I've been in Australia long enough know that fire is a fact of life. Still, it's amazing how fast the bush can recover. A huge fire went through the valley on the other side of the ridge a few years ago. Now you can't even tell that it was burnt through."

"If only humans are so resilient." he murmurs.

She looks at him curiously. "They are; and you, Harry, are the epitome of human resilience."

"I don't feel too resilient lately. This last year I've started to feel my age. Perhaps it comes from one too many betrayals; one too many friends lost."

"You're talking about Zaf," she deduced, "And Adam."

"Ah, Malcolm did say he's been in contact with you."

"Don't be cross with him," she says guardedly, "He only did it at my insistence."

"I'm not. Why should I be when I've thought many times of doing the same?"

Gazing at the fast-moving clouds, he ponders, "All those lost since you've been exiled: Zaf, Adam – almost Ros – among others. It never stops."

_No, it never does,_ Ruth thinks. The cost of their profession has always been high. It was high for her in the few years she spent in MI5. She couldn't begin to imagine how it is for him who has spent a lifetime there.

"When I heard about Adam, all I could think about was little Wes."

Harry recalls the moment he came to tell the young boy of his father's passing; how Wes stood on the rugby field, wide-eyed as he comprehended the meaning of Uncle Harry's presence. "One shouldn't have to tell a ten year-old that he's orphaned."

"I can still see Adam's face after Fiona died – and now his son has to bear that burden alone."

"Not quite alone." he tells her, "He has his grandmother – Adam's mother – in Blackpool. He goes there when he's on holidays from boarding school. And I see him whenever I can."

His admission brought a smile to her lips. "I'm glad."

"It's really the least I can do. Besides, for some strange reason he seems to enjoy my company."

"That's because you _are_ good company – and he looks up to you."

"A vast improvement considering my previous record with children."

Noticing the bitterness in his voice, Ruth decides to leave _that_ Pandora's Box unopened for now. Instead she asks, "What about you? Did you get a chance to mourn?"

The image of Kachimov's body on the cold ground flashes before him; followed by the grim satisfaction he felt afterwards.

"Yes." he resolutely answers, "Yes, I did this time."

* * *

**If you visit the Blue Mountains area in Sydney, the walks around Wentworth Falls are highly recommended!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Up the fluff again? Why not! Though any fluffier and this story will be like whipped cream.  
**

* * *

= _**5 =**_

They cross the creek via a series of stouter stepping stones, and peer over the railing on the other side. There, they see the creek plunge down a hundred and fifty feet to the blue pool below.

"Now, we need to make a decision." Ruth says, "Do we go down the stairs or not?"

"Of course we do." replies Harry somewhat abruptly.

"I only ask because these stairs go straight down the cliff; it can be unforgiving on a bad back or knee."

"I'll be okay."

"Harry, I know you've got a bad knee – among other things. I don't want to call in the rescue chopper."

"Ruth, we'll take it nice and gently. I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Stubborn mule." she mutters under her breath.

"And look who's talking." comes the raspy whisper in her ear that sends delicious shivers down her spine.

They walk along a ledge; on one side a copper-coloured overhang, its magnificent hue gained through thousands of years of exposure to the elements; on the other side a drop of hundreds of feet. At the end of the ledge are the infamous stairs, carved out of the sandstone a century ago. They start off sedately enough, but quickly get steeper until each step presents a two foot drop.

Halfway down, Harry calls out, "Stop."

Ruth turns around. "Are you alright?"

"My legs – they're like jelly."

She smirks. "Told you these stairs are unforgiving."

"Damn knees – to think that I used to run three miles in fifteen minutes."

Ruth's eyes gleam as she pictures a younger, leaner, sweatier version of Harry. "Perhaps you should think of reviving those heady days?"

Harry laughs. "I don't think so. I'm so far from being fit these days that it's laughable. Besides, it would mean my having to don a pair of shorts – a sight that you'd best avoid."

"Oh, I don't know about that." she encourages coyly. "I'd pay money to see you in a pair of shorts."

"Is that a challenge, Miss Evershed?"

Her wicked grin tells him all he needs to know.

"You're on." he finally says, "But don't blame me if you live to regret it."

Despite his shaky legs, their descent continues without further incident. At the bottom they stop to marvel at the waterfall plummeting down the precipice before cascading from pool to pool. Soft mist caresses their faces, settling in their hair and clothes so that they both glimmer in the dappled light.

"What I'd give right now for a cup of sweet tea to wrap my cold hands around." he sighs.

Without a word, Ruth takes his hand and rubs it vigorously between her own.

"There – not quite sweet tea, but I hope they're better."

"Oh, yes." he replies huskily.

Entrapping her hand, he leads her to a sheltered alcove with a flat stone seat made for two. They sit thigh to thigh while Ruth divvies out the sandwiches and water bottles. Harry meanwhile unwraps a block of chocolate, drawing her disapproval.

"Hey, that's supposed to be for later!"

"I've earned my keep, haven't I?"

"Not even close – we've not gone back up the stairs yet."

"No matter, I spotted quite a few venues for afternoon tea near the station."

She glares.

"I'm sure we would have earned a cream tea by then." he says, breaking off a row of dark chocolate squares. "Rum raisin?"

"You're more stubborn than a mule, you know that?"

"It's very nice," he mumbles between chews, "Though I think I prefer the Cadbury's back home; rather more smooth in texture."

With pouting lips, she takes a square.

"Actually," she adds with a grin, "In my line of work I seem to get more boxes of Turkish Delight or baklava. Not that I mind, but I can never say no to chocolate."

"I noticed the rather multicultural feel of the area yesterday; not that London is devoid of such places, but I can't think of anywhere so oriental."

"Yes, Bankstown has actually opened my eyes to all things oriental. At work we often go to some hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese eatery for lunch. I've become quite fond of pho, the lovely beef noodle soup they make. And the Chinese restaurants serve the most wonderful dim sum."

"Ah, I see now why you've taken those language classes."

"Well, it is an advantage to know the language since the best dishes are always written in another script. But truthfully, it's mostly to keep my brain ticking over."

Harry grins. "I can hardly imagine _your_ brain rusting. But it's just like you to relieve boredom by taking up two languages."

"They're providing a good challenge. My grammar isn't too bad but I'm still rubbish at pronunciation."

"You'll get the hang of it soon enough, what with your musical ear."

"Thanks for the encouragement, but it shall be a good while before I master either of them."

"Still, I'm willing to bet that it'll be sooner than the rest of your classmates."

The rushing water provides a soothing soundtrack to their simple meal. Harry feels himself completely relax; a state he has not been in an age. Every now and then he catches the eye of his companion, who occasionally rewards him with one of her elusive smiles.

"You know, I didn't take you for a walker." he comments as he glances up to the top of the waterfall.

"I wasn't in London, was I? But it makes sense to be outdoorsy in this climate when one can have picnics pretty much all year round. Funnily enough, I do miss the cold and rain at times; which is why I come up here. It's the only place I can go for a good dose of fog."

He studies her, sees again that wistful look in her eyes. "So you do miss home."

His question astonishes her. "How can you ask me that? Yes, of course I do. There's not a day when I don't think of home. If I seem content here it's because I've simply tried to make the best of things."

"But now that it _is_ possible for you to go home, are you willing to return?"

She is thoughtful for a moment. "I don't know. It's not a matter of just going home, but all the implications of it; like how Mum will react when I waltz into her kitchen miraculously resurrected."

"You shouldn't let such things worry you."

"Have you met my mother?" she asks pointedly, "If she doesn't have a heart attack she'll be piling on the guilt trips for the rest of my life. And what am I going to tell her, really? That I've disappeared into the desert for three years to follow in the footsteps of Lawrence of Arabia? Or is Crocodile Dundee more apt?"

"We can come up with an explanation."

"God, you're so presumptuous sometimes it's maddening! What if I told you that I don't want to go home? Or, better still, if I asked you to stay _here_? What then?"

"That's not possible."

"Isn't it? I imagine that you've retired to take this much time off."

"I haven't retired, just taken a year off."

"Oh? And who's filling in while you're gone?"

"Ros."

Ruth's eyes widen. "Ros?" she cries, "Why?"

"Because she is the only one capable and because I trust her completely. The Home Secretary's rather fond of her, too."

Ruth scoffs. "I can imagine."

"No, you can't." he retorts, "I've had little else on my mind these last three years than to clear your name, and I couldn't do that because I hadn't been able to find a connection between Mace and Mik Maudsley. Without Ros's help this would still have been the case. She was the one who found Mace's middle man – the one who did his dirty work – who had threatened and bribed Maudsley, planned his suicide, and then paid-off the witness."

The news is welcome to say the least, but one question nags Ruth. "Why would this man confess after all this time?"

"Because he had a score to settle with Mace. He got thrown to the dogs after the whole affair ended instead of playing a part of Mace's new schemes. Considering that Oliver Mace wouldn't know loyalty if it bit him in the rear, I'm not surprised at all. You heard how he died?"

She nods. "I'm not one to gloat, but I was certainly gloating when I heard that piece of news."

"I must admit that I rejoiced, too; not only because it was the end of a nasty piece of work, but because I could finally do something to clear your name. After Ros found and interrogated Mace's henchman, I managed to convince the JIC to reopen the Cotterdam inquiry; the result being that you've been cleared of all charges."

Ruth takes a deep breath as she tries to get her mind around all that he's told her. In the end she can only shake her head. "I don't know what to say, but thank you – to you, and to Ros. It's hard to believe that she did all this to clear my name. I know I wasn't her favourite person in the world."

"She has nothing against you, you know. In fact, she gave me her full and unconditional support when I told her of my plans to bring you back. She's not let me down."

Harry remembers Ros's audacity and loyalty as she stood by him through scandals, betrayals, murders, and kidnappings. Many thought his faith in her misplaced after Djakarta and then Yalta, but since her promotion it has been repaid tenfold.

He continues, "Ros has become a force to be reckoned with since I made her section chief; really taking the position by the horns and giving it a good shake. She's been excellent for the team."

"And for you, too, it seems." Ruth murmurs.

Her melancholy tone makes him turn and lock eyes with her. Is that jealousy he sees? Yet he can only tell it as it is.

"It's true that I couldn't have done without her this past year or two. I've always respected her professionally, but we've become friends since Adam died. It was something we both needed, I think. You know how rare true friends are in this job, how easily one can get isolated."

She nods slowly. "I remember."

She thinks of _their_ friendship, rooted in mutual respect, understanding, and trust. She recalls how adrift she felt, still feels, without a person to share with; to trust.

"I shan't deny you your friends, Harry." she finally says.

"And…" He runs a hand over his jaw. "I shan't pressure you to come home. You know, in many ways this is an ideal place for you. You're safe, settled. If you come home there would be nothing but turmoil; like before."

"Would you like me to return to Section D?"

"I can't deny that I do. You're the best analyst I've ever known. You're missed not only by me but by everyone on the Grid. We'll welcome you back with open arms; but I understand if you just want to return to a quiet life, never to step inside Thames House again. You've already given too much. It'd be unfair of me to demand any more."

"If I say that I want to stay here, what shall you do?"

What shall he do? It doesn't bear thinking.

"I'll go back; carry on the only way I know how."

"And leave without a fight? Harry, that's not like you at all."

He looks at her ardently so that she feels a deep blush spread across her cheeks.

"I want nothing more than a chance with you," he earnestly declares, "But I'm tired of fighting, Ruth. These last few years have been hard; these last four months even harder. I've however had plenty of time to ponder upon my disaster of a life, and what the future might hold. I'm fifty five. I might have a good thirty years if I'm really fortunate, but truthfully I'll be lucky to have fifteen. That's not long at all."

"You'll have longer if you make the best of it."

"I _am _making the best of it, keeping the country upright to the best of my ability. Lately though I fear that things have been slipping away from me."

He pauses, the sound of the rushing water filling the heavy silence.

"Harry, are you thinking of retiring?"

More silence.

"It's not a crime to retire, you know. Most people do. You've given most of your life to the Service. Now that you have someone capable of taking your place, isn't it time that you give a little to yourself?"

"That's the part that most scares me." he painfully admits, "All my adult life I've been too preoccupied to think about anything other than work – to the detriment of my family. In the rare times that I do look at myself I don't particularly like what I see. But there shall be nowhere to hide in retirement. I only have to think of Clive to know that therein lays madness."

"Yet there is one difference between you and Clive – you're not alone."

Her eyes glow with affection, giving him a distant glimmer of hope. Does he dare accept what she is offering?

"You and I – do you think…?"

In response, she gives him a swift, hard kiss.

"Does that answer your question?"


	6. Chapter 6

_**= 6 =**_

After the sandwiches are eaten Ruth packs the water bottles away and zips up the backpack. Just as she shoulders the bag, she hears, "Here, let me."

She hands over the backpack without a word, waiting for Harry to thread his arms through the straps before heading back up the track. Ruth ascends the stairs rapidly while Harry, conscious of his bad knees and lack of fitness, takes his time. It isn't long before he disposes of his jacket; his breathing growing laboured as the stairs pitch ever steeper. Ruth is nowhere in sight. He wonders how her little legs could climb so fast. The gym wasn't really her thing in London, but given the changes he's already seen in her life, he doesn't put regular visits past her now.

After tackling a particularly difficult section, he pauses to take a sip of water. When he eyes the other bottle in the bag, he realises that Ruth is without water – or anything else for that matter.

"Bugger."

Up the stairs he goes, at a faster pace now. He climbs although it hurts to breathe, although his legs scream from the build up of lactic acid. Above the tree line he ascends, until he reaches a wide landing – and Ruth.

She smiles as he wobbles across the landing, but when she sees how out of breath he is her smile turns into a look of grave concern.

"That was rather steep." he wheezes.

"Don't talk, Harry, just breathe."

He takes her advice, instead fishing out the water bottles from the pack and handing one to her. They both drink their fill before he asks, "How do you climb so fast?"

"Through a lot of walking – and cycling. I often go out for long rides on weekends along the river. Sometimes I ride twenty miles or more."

The image of Ruth happily cycling along a riverside path makes him smile, however the prospect of climbing more stairs does not.

"That's very good to hear, however do you mind if we go at a pace that my creaky legs can take? Just for today?"

"Of course I don't mind." she replies rather sheepishly, "In fact, I'd rather you lead."

"Ah, so you can get a good posterior view?"

"Pearce!"

He chuckles. "No need to deny it, Miss Evershed. It's you after all who admitted to having an appreciation for men in tight shorts."

"Only on the _right man_, I said."

"Am I not in that category?"

"I won't know until I've seen you in a pair."

"Well, these might not be shorts," he says, glancing down at his khaki-coloured trousers, "But they sure are tight."

They ascend the stairs together as discussed, with Harry leading and Ruth closely following. They climb in silence, listening instead to a currawong's melodic call and each other's breathing. From time to time he would turn his head, seeing if he could catch her in the act of staring, but she is rather too wily to be caught out. It however doesn't prevent her from spending many minutes contemplating his rear assets. Having never been in such close proximity to it, it arouses in her the most indecent of thoughts. At times she is sorely tempted to grab hold and pinch those delectable cheeks, but luckily for him she hasn't entirely lost her self-control.

At length the stairs end; they are back at the top of the waterfall. They decide after a short breather to walk back to the station.

"For cream tea?" Harry asks teasingly.

"You're incorrigible." she replies, shaking her head.

Harry is grateful for the track's gentle gradient after the day's exertions, and is pleased when they reach civilisation with surprisingly minimal effort. At the shops they wander from café to café, reading each menu posted at the door. Opposite the station they stumble upon an oddity.

"A German patisserie? I think someone's rather confused." Harry comments.

"Mmm, it looks promising though." Ruth absently replies as she glances through the window at the row of cakes, pastries and breads. "Maybe they are really German?"

"Well, I guess around here one never knows. Alright, I'm curious now."

They enter a busy little place. Being Saturday, the café is filled with lunching mothers and toddlers, grandmothers catching up over a coffee, and fathers and sons having an after-footie snack. The atmosphere being lively, they didn't mind waiting for a table. Meanwhile, Ruth observes a little girl of some four years old, pink-dressed and plaited, gazing wide-eyed around the room as her mother transacts at the counter. The girl gives her a toothy grin when Ruth catches her eye and makes a face.

"I daresay she'll go on to capture a few hearts." Harry muses.

"Oh? How do you know?"

"From that cheeky grin I see she's captured yours already."

The half-smile she gives is surprisingly uneasy; she is still watching the girl who is now enamoured by the biscuits her mother has placed in her hand. Ruth's focus is momentarily broken while she and Harry are seated, but once they have ordered her eyes once again fasten on to the girl, now exiting the café with her mother.

Harry, who has quietly been observing her, asks, "You okay?"

"That girl," she says once mother and daughter are out of sight, "She reminds me of when I was that age; how I was before Dad died."

She absently plays with her serviette, folding and refolding it until it is thoroughly crumpled.

"I was a bright, young thing; so happy to bask in my father's attention. We spent many hours reading together from the classics. I loved _Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare_, especially since he'd bring each character to life by using different voices. He was so good at that, and life was all sweetness and light. When he died I was devastated, debilitated even. Mum was of course concerned, but she hadn't the patience to deal with me, so her solution was to send me to boarding school."

Harry shakes his head. "Heartless, completely heartless." he snarls through pursed lips.

"When I asked her why I had to go, she said it was because 'I would be kept occupied there and have no time to be sad, because time doesn't stand still even when you lose someone you love.' She was right in a way. I couldn't mope at boarding school – I had no chance to – but neither did I get the chance to mourn properly. The pain took years to dissipate, no matter how much I threw myself into my studies or music or drama."

"Yet it's all that reading and learning and pushing boundaries that makes you so, well, brilliant."

Ruth blushes. "Only that 'brilliance' came at a cost. I've ended up so far away from that bright, beaming girl. It goes to show how far reaching the loss of a parent can have on a child."

"Yes," he murmurs, "I know how the loss of a parent can change a person."

Ruth sees his aching look, asks softly, "Your mother?"

He nods. "She died when I was not quite twenty one. I was very close to her, more so than my brother Ben, who favoured my father. Losing her was the most painful experience I ever had up till that point. Before that I suppose I was carefree, careless of where I was going, but her death brought home how short life can be; short enough that it can be easily wasted if one has no direction, no purpose. I could have fulfilled my father's wish by taking a job in finance like most of my peers, but that would have been too easy, too selfish a thing to do even. So I joined the army instead."

"Was that wise, considering how delicate you must have been; emotionally, I mean?"

"I suppose I was in no state to make any life changing decisions, but the decision turned out to be the right one. I had an outlet in which I could pour my grief into, and in time the grief did pass; though the carefree lad of my youth was no more."

They pause for a moment, each pondering over what they had said and heard. It is with an unexpected grin that Harry says, "I haven't spoken about Mother's death in years. Strangely, it feels liberating to talk about her. Thank you, Ruth, for listening."

His gratitude is heartening, so much so that it warms her through and through. "No, thank _you_." she whispers tremulously. "For, for caring."

The look he gives her is filled with such feeling that its intensity is electrifying.

"Ruth…" he says tenderly, "I shan't ever stop caring."


	7. Chapter 7

_** = 7 =**_

They sip sweet tea. Harry being granted his wish for cream tea, lathers his scones generously with cream and jam, while Ruth forks a more dainty apple strudel. They confirm that the owner is indeed German, from Bavaria going by the plaques and certificates on the wall beside them. When afternoon tea is over, they stroll, or more accurately, waddle across the road to await the next Sydney-bound train. Fortunately for Harry, the bitter wind has turned mild, although Ruth would have been more than willing to provide the much-needed body warmth.

The carriage is more crowded than the one they inhabited early that morning, meaning a temporary refrain from any grand displays of affection. It however didn't stop them from snuggling against each other, until Ruth realises something crucial midway through the ride home.

"I haven't asked whether you're staying for dinner. Will you stay? For dinner, I mean."

Her bumbling request is so endearing that he consents immediately.

"Only there's something that I've forgot… Bugger, I've not done the shopping – my cupboard's completely bare! I'm sorry; we'll have to eat out again, I'm afraid."

"In that case, I'd like to treat you." he proposes, "It's the least I can do for you after guiding me today."

To his surprise, Ruth immediately consents; which leads them to debate about what to eat.

"French." he suggests.

"There are none close by. What about Thai or Vietnamese instead?"

"Too pedestrian. Plus I want to go to some place more intimate tonight. I don't mind travelling a bit if it's good."

"I bet you haven't even tried either cuisine. And there are some quieter, more romantic oriental restaurants."

"But it's been months since I've had anything approaching good European food. Italian then."

"A good one?"

"Yes, a good one. Money is no object tonight."

"In that case – I think I might know of a place."

Since it is only four o'clock when they arrive back at Petersham Station, they return to her flat.

"Feel free to put the kettle on while I make some phone calls." she says as she picks up the phone in the hallway.

While Ruth organises both table and taxi, Harry takes a look around. The flat is a mid-century build, with warm pinewood floorboards and art deco cornices. In the living room an old-fashioned picture rail lines every wall, and hanging from these are Renaissance and Dutch Master prints, along with Middle-Eastern artworks, evidently accumulated during her travels. The furniture is also very Ruth – rich woods accented by intricate yet homely fabrics. In contrast, the kitchen is a far more modern affair; cream laminate cabinets with a dark stone bench top; yet even here Ruth is ever present, in the jars of spices and herbs that litter its surface, and the small painting of what looks to be a Cotswolds scene.

Harry fills the kettle and sets it to boil before hunting around for mugs and teabags. It strikes him that the last time he made tea for her was on the day she witnessed Maudsley's death. She was then deep in shock, her mind throwing out all sorts of wild possibilities that sounded over-the-top even to his ears. In hindsight, he wasn't as comforting as he should have been, dismissing her hunch and then leaving prematurely when Adam called him away; actions he now deeply regrets.

_All that feels like a lifetime ago, _he thinks as he pours the boiling water into a pair of mugs. As he stirs in the sugar and milk, Ruth enters the kitchen.

"What do you think of the place?" she asks.

"Very you, I think." he tells her as he hands her a steaming mug.

His honest assertion makes her smile. "It's smaller than my old place, I know, but it's comfortable enough. I haven't been able to do too much to it since I'm renting, but to be honest I wouldn't want to even if I owned it. It's lovely as it is."

He sips his tea, and nodding to the painting on the wall, asks, "Is that the Cotswolds?"

"Yes, it's the village of Longborough, near Stow-on-the-Wold. I actually visited it quite often as a child since one of Mum's cousins lived there. I bought the painting at a Saturday market, initially because it reminded me of home. It was only when I hung it up that I realised it was of a place I knew."

"It's good to be reminded of home sometimes."

"Yes, sometimes…" she breezily answers while sipping the hot liquid; her mind jumping from thatched cottages to more immediate subjects – like tonight's date.

Although she has already spent nine hours with him, she is excited to being able to have a proper, romantic meal with him. Their only dinner date was memorable enough, but now that feelings have been declared, acknowledged, and reciprocated, it seems to mean so much more. She wants to be able to gaze at him across a candlelit table while sipping white wine. And then afterwards? The possibilities are endless.

Harry meanwhile is more concerned about his dishevelled appearance.

"Do you mind if I use the shower before we go?" he asks after draining his cup. "I really don't think walking into a fine dining establishment stinking of high heaven is a good idea, do you?"

She leads him to the bathroom, handing him a fresh towel from the linen cupboard as he enters. When the shower begins to run she smiles; he is whistling _I Get a Kick Out of You._

"Nice one, Harry." she says to the closed door, before her imagination almost runs away with her. The image of a wet and naked Harry isn't the easiest thing to dislodge from her mind, particularly when the night ahead is so promising.

_Who knows, _she tells herself, _You might see him in that state very soon._

The possibility sends her scurrying to her bedroom to examine the contents of her wardrobe.

In the bathroom, Harry finishes off his shower, and roughly towels himself down. Somehow he finds himself in front of the mirror studying his gaunt face, but more alarmingly, his latest collection of scars. He wonders what Ruth sees in him sometimes. He may have once been 'dashing', but now he is merely a man on the cusp of old age – and retirement.

Could he really retire? It's not as if he hasn't asked himself the question before, in fact, he has pondered upon it more often in the past year than at any time in his long career. Australia is as good a place as any, he supposes. It's as far away from Britain as can be, which could prove to be an advantage if he wanted to get away from it all; but the threat of boredom scares him. What would he find to do here? Take up golf? Go fishing? Join the local cricket team? No, he would rather crawl to his Aussie counterpart's desk and beg for a job.

He could of course join the private sector as other retired spooks have done before him, or God forbid, start a consultancy business; yet both options are abhorrent to him, particularly if his relationship with Ruth is to have any hope. She deserves a better partner than one who is chained to his profession, no matter how deserving that profession is. Perhaps she did the right thing in turning him away all those years ago. If their relationship had progressed who's to say that it wouldn't be thwarted by him, as he had thwarted every other relationship? Ruth may be patient, but even the most patient people have their limits.

They would certainly have a better chance together if he did retire, for surely she would want children, and the last thing he wants is to be a bad father once again. He's seen the chilling look of disappointment on Jane's face one too many times; he never wants to see such an expression on Ruth's face.

But for the moment, he has more immediate things to occupy him, like these scars; glaring marks of courage perhaps, but still horrifying even to him. He dreads her reaction, her imminent revulsion, her crippling pity; yet in her response lies his future.

Taking a deep breath, he pulls on his shirt.

An hour later, Ruth steps into the living room, where Harry sits perusing a Tolstoy novel he found on her shelf. She could feel butterflies in her stomach as she fastens her second earring, and unsteadily asks, "Ready to go?"

Raising his eyes, he starts.

"What?" Is something undone, out of place, not to his taste? She is more self-conscious than ever.

"You look beautiful, Ruth."

Her simple black dress skims her body, highlighting her curves in a way that enchants him. Her wavy brown hair hangs free, beautifully framing her face. Plain pearl stud earrings, and yes, the charm necklace he loves, are her only other adornments; but they are more than enough for him.

She feels herself blush under his gaze, watches breathlessly as he lays down the book and approaches. He kisses her softly.

"Beautiful." he whispers.

She mumbles a bashful 'thanks'. It is all she can manage when he is this close to her. The fresh smell of him, the look of desire in his golden eyes, mesmerises her; she barely hears the toot of the taxi horn outside above the roar of her ears, and it takes all her strength not to lead him to the bedroom, but instead murmur, "Time to go."


	8. Chapter 8

**Ah, pure H/R fluff. There's nothing quite like it.**

* * *

_**= 8 =**_

"You've been here before I take it?" Harry asks after the taxi drops them at corner of an inner city street.

"Never, actually. I walked by here one day and was curious."

They enter the restaurant; a space that is modern in interior, but with its walnut-panelled walls and candlelit tables, nevertheless warm in ambience. The drawcard however is the wall-to-ceiling windows that present the city skyline in all its glory; the golden tower, the twin spires of the cathedral, the glimmering skyscrapers; all creating a myriad of light in the twilight sky.

They are seated by the window. Harry's attention has not wavered from her since she stepped into the living room, and Ruth in nervousness diverts her eyes to the view.

"Wow."

"Yes." he answers, though in acknowledgement of something other than the view.

"I… I hope the food is as good."

"Good food shall help, but it's no longer an essential requirement for me."

His remark attracts her full attention. "Really?" she asks, "Then shall we change venues and spend the evening at McDonald's instead?"

His grin grows larger. "On second thoughts…"

"See," says Ruth, unable to hide her smirk, "Good food counts for something."

"As does a good view."

Thinking back to their walk earlier, she gives a hearty laugh. "Now, even I can vouch for that."

The flirting takes the edge off her nervousness, further aided by the fact that Harry is more jovial that she's ever seen him; the twinkle in his eyes as infectious as the genuine smiles that play across his face. Back in Section D she saw mere glimpses of this playful side of him, the nature of their work not exactly conductive to frequent moments of light heartedness, but when he did smile she was always entranced.

As they twirl black ink linguine about their forks, she feels her insides liquefy by not only the tastiness of the food, but by his adorable company. The Pinot Grigio flows freely as they move on to the main course: barramundi with fennel for Ruth and rack of lamb for Harry. By the time the pudding arrives they are both euphoric.

"I can't help compare tonight to our first dinner date." Harry contemplates as he digs into his zabaglione.

"Our _only _dinner date, you mean?" Ruth counters over her trio of chocolate mousse.

"Okay, we've not many to choose from right now, but hopefully that shall change." he says, a hopeful tone in his voice. "Anyway, I remember you being quite nervous."

She purses her lips. "Mmm, I suppose I was, a little bit. But that was because I was so, well, overwhelmed."

He smiles at her openness, and in turn is open himself. "I wasn't exactly smooth either. I was, and still am, very rusty at all this."

She grins. "Don't worry, in your case I really haven't noticed. Anyway, I think we both enjoyed ourselves regardless."

"Especially our discussion on travel – and Grand Tours."

They gaze silently at each other, their eyes speaking of possibilities.

"You and me; touring Paris, Rome, Vienna, Berlin…" says Harry dreamily.

"Loitering artfully in cafés." adds Ruth.

"Spending long afternoons in art galleries."

"Strolling, no, cycling along the riverside."

"Ah yes, now that you're quite the cyclist."

"Exploring ancient ruins."

"Swimming in the aqua waters of the Greek Isles."

They both quietly sigh in unison.

"And… I think I've found my perfect companion." Harry says, his voice dropping, becoming positively seductive.

"Have you now?" Ruth replies, spooning a dollop of chocolate mousse into her mouth.

He nods, mesmerised, the zabaglione abandoned.

"And who might she, if indeed it is a she, be?"

He clasps her hand, stroking its smoothness with his thumb.

"Mmm, I thought it might be her." she purrs coyly, dropping the spoon into her empty bowl, and licking her lips. "Shall you ask her then?"

"I'm seriously thinking about it."

"One piece of advice," she whispers conspiringly, "If you're serious, then ask. I have a feeling that she'll adore it."

After their sumptuous dinner they meander down to the waterside, strolling past restaurants packed to the gills, lingering at the end of a pier to watch the ferries pass and the lights of the North Shore twinkle on the harbour. In time they make their way back into the city centre, walking through a grove of Moreton Bay figs, past an amphitheatre where summertime concerts are held. Ruth, having been heedless of direction, is surprised to find herself outside a large hotel.

"Yours?" she asks.

He nods.

They stand in expectant silence. The lights of the hotel lobby cast gold accents on to her luminous blue eyes so that his brown ones bask in their warmth. On both sides a familiar hesitation descends; one they know has blocked their progress the first time round. Yet there is a difference. Whatever reticence she may have expressed back then is no more; desire now blazing in her eyes as bright and clear as it does in his. It is this desire that propels them together, he leaning slowly down towards her upwardly turned face; she sighing in anticipation as their lips touch; the kiss deepening by degrees until it consumes them both.

When they finally part, it is she who hooks her arm through his, leaving him in no doubt as to her plans for the night ahead.

Arm-in-arm, they enter the lobby.


	9. Chapter 9

_**= 9 =**_

Dawn peeks through the curtains as Ruth awakes. Not recognising the room, she is momentarily disoriented until she feels a warm breath on her back and a heavy hand on her hip. It is then that she remembers.

Gently placing the hand on the mattress, she turns slowly to face a slumbering Harry. Deep in sleep, her movement elicits barely a murmur, leaving her free to examine him.

_Dear, beautiful Harry_.

Their coupling had been one passionate, lingering act of not only pleasure, but of communion. How wonderful it was to love him completely; to explore his body and for him to explore hers, discovering what had for years laid beneath sober office attire. His long, broad contours held as much fascination for her as her curves had for him. She had marvelled at the feel of his skin as she ran a knuckle up and down his arm and side. She does this now, but the soft dawn also brings with it new discoveries.

She traces the puckered skin on his shoulder – a bullet wound he sustained almost six years ago now.

"Don't get shot," she told him on the docks before she left; and he promised not to. Has he kept his promise?

Continuing her exploration, she runs a hand down his chest, where she finds not a bullet wound, but lacerations. She feels his back, and finds similar welts there, too. What on earth has happened to him? Her imagination instantly kicks in, dreaming up all sorts of nightmare scenarios until the tears begin to fall.

"Ruth?"

Harry's voice is heavy with concern and sleep. "What's wrong, my love?"

In answer she kisses his chest, pulling him into a tight embrace. He returns her hug, feeling her hot tears on his skin.

She struggles to speak. "When – when I left it was so you could go on fighting, but these scars, Harry… They're horrific. How…?"

He squints, as though in pain, compelling her to hastily say, "You don't have to tell me…"

"Yes." he says stoically, "Yes, I do."

He takes a deep breath. "I was captured in Algeria by mercenaries. I was, as usual, somewhere where I wasn't meant to be, and they didn't take to my trespassing kindly. They were very young men, boys really, and didn't know who they were holding at first; but somehow they found out who I was, which promptly changed their tune."

He told her very briefly how he'd been kept in a tiny hut in the back of Algiers, and tortured by degrees, first with fist, then baton, and finally whip; for information on anti Al-Qaeda operations in the UK.

"The trouble was that not being professionals they didn't know where to draw the line, so that the more frustrated they grew, the more brutal they became. Six knew I was in the country, particularly since I liaised with the North African office just weeks before, but they didn't give a damn at first. It was Ros who raised the alarm when I didn't ring in, but Six were stubborn, and by the time they got their act together I'd been imprisoned for three weeks."

Ruth, who has been listening with increasing horror, cries, "My God, three whole weeks?"

It is not the expected pity that he sees in her eyes, but something altogether more heartening – empathy and great love.

"It's okay." he reassures her, "I got out, only needing to spend a few days in hospital. These scars are the only signs that I was ever there now."

"Outwardly perhaps, but what about the mental scars, Harry? You couldn't have gone through three weeks of torture without ending up with a few of those." She shakes her head. "You shouldn't have had to go through this. If I'd gone to gaol you wouldn't have had to trapeze through North Africa in the first place."

"But you would have been in _gaol_, Ruth; I'd have lost you anyway."

"How do you know? We're resourceful people; we'd have found a way to see each other somehow." She wiped her eyes fitfully. "It was always a possibility that you might follow me, but since I survived North Africa unscathed I thought that you would, too."

"Ruth, there's nothing to feel guilty about. You yourself said that we made the right decision."

"We did, but that doesn't stop me from wanting you safe, or at least being there for you when things go wrong."

Harry sighs. "I know the feeling; but at least you knew where I was, what I'd be doing, whereas I didn't even have that comfort."

She smiles ruefully, the yearning in his voice and eyes too painful to bear. "Oh Harry," she murmurs, "You knew there would be little opportunity for contact. It was hard enough getting that postcard to you."

He strokes her cheek. "I know. I…"

He cannot speak, stupefied by the recollection of when the postcard landed on his doorstep. He remembers sinking down to the hallway floor when he read it, overcome by a mixture of elation, relief, longing and grief.

"Harry?"

Now it is he that weeps, that clutches her close.

"I can't believe I'm here; you're here. I can't believe…"

He is silenced by the rain of kisses falling on his chest, neck and jaw in rapid succession. When her eyes are level with his, he stares into the teary blue orbs, seeing himself reflected in them. Her lips descend, not to his mouth, but to his cheek, her tongue delicately licking away the teardrops. His heart beats hard and fast as anguish intermingles with desire, desire mounting when he sees the raw need in her eyes.

What follows is a wild clash of lips, tongues, bodies, as they embrace, entwine, entangle; embarking once more on the journey that will meld them into one.


	10. Chapter 10

**We've come to the penultimate chapter, folks, and a few decisions are made.**

* * *

_**= 10 =**_

Much later they sit shoulder-to-shoulder on a bench in the Botanical Gardens, contemplating the harbour in the midday light. Yachts gently sail among cruise boats and green and gold ferries, while on land, joggers tread the paths in force, dodging tourists who saunter about leisurely. The grass is green after recent rains and the wide canopy of the Moreton Bay fig provides ample shelter from the penetrating sun.

They enjoy the picturesque scene in companionable silence, both imbued with a deep sense of peace. Harry soaks up the mild temperature, so pleasant after two months in the searing desert heat. He eyes the passing joggers enviously. Ruth's teasing the previous day has alerted him to the fact that he's ignored his health for far too long. If he's to keep up with her in the future then his fitness needs to be addressed very soon.

_It shouldn't take too much effort to get into shape_, he hopes, recollecting her appreciative glance yesterday on the stairs with pleasure. Perhaps the humiliation of donning shorts would be worth it? Who knows, they may even train together. He smiles at the prospect.

Ruth's thoughts meanwhile are engaged somewhat differently. She is watching a family picnicking by the pond. The children, three of them ranging in age from eight years downwards, are busy feeding the numerous waterfowl, aided by their attentive parents. Their laughter is infectious as they tear and fling their bread at the unassuming ducks.

But while she outwardly smiles, inwardly she aches; yearning for such happy domesticity in her life, the kind that she's not experienced since childhood. She's seen all her friends stumble into long-term relationships, marry, have children, even divorce; yet even the bitterness of the latter hasn't eased her longing. Instead, it makes her more eager to get it right the first time round; only that she's never had the chance.

She never let herself hope of a future with Harry while in Section D. In the early days of their acquaintance the prospect was simply too far-fetched, but as they grew closer such hopes would rear its head more often. It frequently required rigorous self-chastising to dismiss, but painful as it was she did it diligently, simply because it never occurred to her that Harry Pearce would value Ruth Evershed as anything other than a respected team member; at most, a close friend. That was until he asked her out to dinner, and looked at her with eyes that yearned just like her own.

"Do you ever think of having children again?" she asks; her eyes still on the family.

The question takes him by surprise. He turns to her, and after following her line of sight, makes the connection.

"Think – yes." he carefully replies, "But want? I don't rightly know."

He explains, "It's not a question of simply _wanting_ children, but being able to be a good parent to them. My record so far has been shocking to say the least. I neglected my children for so long that I never saw them grow up, never knew them really; and they've hated me for it. With Catherine I've at least managed to salvage some resemblance of a relationship, but with Graham it's been a disaster from the start. That's why I'm scared as hell, Ruth. Who's to say that I shan't fail again?"

"You shan't fail, Harry, because you'll do your utmost to make it work. It's what I'd do if I ever get the chance. Don't forget that I've seen what happens when a marriage goes wrong, too. I've come home from boarding school to rows so bad that I'd lock myself in my bedroom rather than be in their presence. But despite having _that_ as an example, I must still try."

"But shall my best be good enough? Keep in mind that I'm also on the cusp of old age. What woman wants to commit herself to a man who she must take care of when he should be taking care of her? Who would make her a widow before her time, and leave her to rear their children single-handedly?"

"A woman who loves her man." she answers resolutely, "Who trusts him implicitly because he's proved himself time and again to be trustworthy, compassionate, valiant, and loving; who knows that her time with him, however short, would be the best years of her life; because despite their prospective pasts, she knows that they'd do everything to ensure that their children are happy; that they know how it is to belong to two loving parents. That would be achievement enough for me. Wouldn't it be for you?"

The question makes him thoughtful. "It would be more than an achievement – it would be a triumph."

And after studying her in wonderment, he says, "You're an remarkable woman, Ruth Evershed."

She smiles ruefully. "No Harry, I'm ordinary enough. I just don't want let this opportunity pass us by again."

His grin is unexpected. "That's the advice Juliet gave me once – about you."

"Juliet?" she exclaims, "I can hardly believe it."

"Oh, she's not as cold-hearted as she makes out to be, though at the time I hardly knew what to make of it myself. Getting advice about matters of the heart from her isn't an everyday occurrence, but she was spot on in this case. Up until that point I'd never been brave enough to admit, even to myself, that I was in love with you, let alone find the courage to do something about it."

"Why, Harry? Was I so scary back then?"

"No, not at all – the difficulty was all up here." He taps his temple. "I was afraid: afraid that you didn't feel the same, afraid to stuff things up, afraid to lose you if things did go pear-shaped."

"The irony is that it was me who stuffed things up. I know I hurt you by pulling away; well, I've learned my lesson – I won't pull away again."

"And neither shall I." he declares, "I realise now that we can make things work if we apply what we've learned from past experiences. It won't be easy, but then again, I think neither of us is afraid of a challenge."

She smiles. "It just makes it all the more satisfying when you do get it right. But time is of the essence, Harry; not just for you but also for me. I'm thirty nine; my child bearing years are almost over – so it's really now or never."

They lock eyes, and seeing the determination in his mirroring the optimism in hers gives them both heart. He holds out his arms, which she easily slips into, laying her cheek upon his chest before he gathers her up. Clasping each other tightly, they listen to their hearts beat distinctly over the rustling leaves overhead.

"We'll make it work, Ruth." he murmurs into her hair. "I won't slip up again."

She shakes her head. "It's not about us slipping up individually, but as a team. If what we do is anything less than a combined effort then that's how we'll fail. But the good thing is that we're already a team – and a good one."

He chuckles. "Yes, we certainly are."

"We can become an even better team if we improve our team work, you know. You said that you've taken a year off, but since it hasn't been much of a holiday so far, why don't you stay in Sydney awhile?"

"Is that an offer, Miss Evershed?"

She laughs. "Yes, Mr. Pearce, it is; now is your time to relax and let me spoil you a little."

"What about the Grand Tour?"

"We can do that, too. I look forward to touring Europe without having to constantly watch my back – and use my real name again."

It is now he that smiles. "So you _are_ willing to take up your old identity again."

"I am – I want a future with you, Harry, and if your future is in the UK then I'm willing to go back home."

"Only I don't know if I want to go back now; I think I can get used to all this." he admits, gazing at the blue harbour, the clear sky, and the beautiful woman in his arms. "But I've still eight months left of my break; plenty of time for us to ponder over details while on the Grand Tour; and maybe even a trip around Australia?"

"That's a lovely idea," she affirms brightly.

"Then perhaps you following in the footsteps of Crocodile Dundee isn't so far-fetched after all?"

She grins. "Somehow I can't picture either of us in a wide-brimmed hat, wielding a foot-long hunting knife, can you? But before we embark anywhere, I'll need a little time to wrap things up at work."

"Not a problem – or 'no worries', as they say around here. In the meantime I shall just have to find myself a worthwhile occupation. I'm thinking of taking up jogging."

"Mmm, not if you want to save your knees. But you can borrow my bike anytime; or since it shall start warming up soon, take up swimming."

"Swimming?" he cries, "Now look who is incorrigible."

"What do you mean?"

"Tight shorts?"

She smirks. "I told you I wanted to see you in them."

"Am I the right kind of man to be wearing shorts, though?"

"Harry, you were _always_ my right kind of man."

* * *

**If you enjoyed this, please drop me a review!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Well, it's very sad but we've come to the end of the story. Of course, the ending's got to be a fluffy one! Hint, guess what audio book I've been listening to lately?**

* * *

_**= 11 =**_

Much, much later, with Ruth's fridge and cupboard filled to the brim, Harry's worn suitcase in the bedroom, and dinner served and eaten, they retire to the living room to enjoy the last hours of the weekend. With the remains of a bottle of Shiraz on the coffee table, they recline on the sofa in each other's arms, talking softly while the gentle sounds of Debussy play on her stereo.

"I suppose I'll have to ring Ros one of these days, before she sends in the reinforcements."

"What, you've not yet told her that you found me?"

He shakes his head. "The last time I called was from Cairo airport, just before I got on the plane to Dubai." he admits, "And I've been rather preoccupied since."

He kisses her gently.

"See?"

"So now it's _my _fault that you've been busy, is it?"

"Certainly – well, it certainly was last night."

"When it was _me_ who was trying to get some much needed sleep."

"You've got a strange way of going about it, trying to kiss me senseless." he says, kissing the crux of her neck. "Why don't you count sheep like everyone else?"

"That's just a myth. Who on earth does that anyway?"

"It hasn't worked for me since I was a boy, but we _can _modify it slightly so it shall work. How are you for counting kisses?"

She returns a kiss on the corner of his pouting lips. "I'm all for it – when it's bedtime."

"I'm ready now."

"When it's barely eight o'clock? I don't think so."

"I _am _genuinely tired, you know."

"I'll say. Well, if we are about to head for bed, then a bedtime story would be appropriate."

He cocks his head in that endearing way he has. "And what do you have in mind?"

Reaching down to her work bag, she scrummages through it to pull out a battered novel.

He grins. "Thomas Hardy? And here I am thinking that you're an Austen girl."

"Jane Austen has her place," she explains, "But when I want drama I reach for Hardy; and _Tess_ is my favourite."

He isn't a fan of Hardy in general, but even he has read _Tess of the D'Urbervilles_ and been enamoured by its beautiful, vivid prose.

"Any passage in particular?"

"The beginning shall do."

Taking the book from her, he finds the first page and begins to read.

Ruth has only asked the favour in order to indulge in his soothing, seductive voice, yet even she is surprised to find that he is not only a competent reader, but an enthralling one. He changes between RP and West Country accents with the consummate ease of an actor, until she no longer hears Harry but the characters.

At the chapter's conclusion she lets out a well-satisfied sigh.

"I didn't realise you can act so well."

He simply shrugs his shoulders. "I was in the drama club at school, if that explains anything."

"So was I, but even I can't manage a convincing West Country accent."

"It's because of my best friend, Bill. He was an extraordinary actor, could imitate anyone's accent convincingly. The larks we pulled as kids were something to behold. I'd pick out some random destination we'd have to talk our way to, where the objective was to be shouted a dozen free drinks at the roughest pub we could find. Since I was always the accomplice I was forced to pick up a few regional accents as well. We went to Dorset several times so I certainly got a lot of practice; my West Yorkshire accent isn't bad either."

She beams. "You're a man of many talents, Pearce. And since you're so good at it, why don't you read me…" She flips a few pages, "This?"

He reads, "Tess Durbeyfield at this time of her life was a mere vessel of emotion untinctured by experience. The dialect was on her tongue to some extent, despite the village school: the characteristic intonation of that dialect for this district being the voicing approximately rendered by the syllable ur, probably as rich an utterance as any to be found in human speech. The pouted-up deep red mouth to which this syllable was native had hardly as yet settled into its definite shape, and her lower lip had a way of thrusting the middle of her top one upward, when they closed together after a word."

He went on to narrate the story of how the picturesque country girl met Angel Clare, her would-be husband, at the May Dance in a Dorset field, and how he had asked not her, but another, to dance.

"The church clock struck, when suddenly the student said that he must leave--he had been forgetting himself-- he had to join his companions. As he fell out of the dance his eyes lighted on Tess Durbeyfield, whose own large orbs wore, to tell the truth, the faintest aspect of reproach that he had not chosen her. He, too, was sorry then that, owing to her backwardness, he had not observed her; and with that in his mind he left the pasture.

On account of his long delay he started in a flying-run down the lane westward, and had soon passed the hollow and mounted the next rise. He had not yet overtaken his brothers, but he paused to get breath, and looked back. He could see the white figures of the girls in the green enclosure whirling about as they had whirled when he was among them. They seemed to have quite forgotten him already.

All of them, except, perhaps, one. This white shape stood apart by the hedge alone. From her position he knew it to be the pretty maiden with whom he had not danced. Trifling as the matter was, he yet instinctively felt that she was hurt by his oversight. He wished that he had asked her; he wished that he had inquired her name. She was so modest, so expressive, she had looked so soft in her thin white gown that he felt he had acted stupidly.

However, it could not be helped, and turning, and bending himself to a rapid walk, he dismissed the subject from his mind."

At the end of the page they pause; he to gauge her reaction, she to stare back in pure wonderment.

"I think I found my next audio book."

He draws her close. "If it makes you happy I shall read the whole book from cover to cover."

And pulling his head down to hers, she whispers, "It shall make me _very_ happy indeed."

"Then I think my call to Ros will have to wait until morning."

He does keep his resolution, calling Ros after breakfast and giving Ruth a brief chance to thank her, too. But the protracted call did play havoc with Ruth's schedule, and it is a minor miracle that she makes it to the Council office by nine.

"So, how's your weekend, Rita?" Hayley asks as Ruth splays files all over her desk.

"Oh, fine." replies Ruth, unable to hide the sparkle in her eyes.

Her friend gives her a curious glance. "There's something's different about you this morning. Something tells me that you've taken my advice."

"I have, yes. I – I went on a date."

Hayley's eyes pop. "_And?_"

"Well, it started as a kind of a day out, but before I knew it it turned into a weekend-long thing."

"Who the hell with? Do I know him?"

Ruth shakes her head. "An old friend from back home, in the UK, I mean. He came on a surprise visit, we met up, and…"

She follows with a _very_ rough outline of their weekend.

"Oh my God, I'm so happy for you!" cries Hayley after administering a giant hug. "Tell me, what does he look like?"

"Like _that_."

She looks through the window to where Harry is standing, waves, and receives a good-naturedly wave in reply.

"Distinguished-looking, kind face – I approve."

"Well, you've not much chance of deterring me, not when he's moved in with me."

"Already? Ah, what a whirlwind romance!"

"You might say that," Ruth chuckles, "If six years can be called a whirlwind."

* * *

**Thank you to Thomas Hardy for writing such a beautiful book. Thank you for reading. As always, a review will make me very happy, truly!**


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